Panic Attack
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock pays Molly a late night visit. Can she calm him down? Sherlolly


The period of time between Sherlock Holmes return from the dead, and his return from his four minute exile had almost been harder on Dr. Molly Hooper than the two plus years he had spent ridding the world of Moriarty's network of associates. Sherlock had returned, but she was engaged to the man known forever hereafter as "Meatdagger." Then the drug relapse, and the phoney engagement to Janine, and the whole Magnussen mess. Molly had almost lost hope of regaining the relationship she had once had with the detective. He had trusted her, told her that she counted, and they had picked up after his absence as friends. However, the drugs, the girlfriend, and, of course, the murder of the despised blackmailer had put quite a strain on their relationship. But the pretended reappearance of the arch-criminal James Moriarty, and the detective's genuine concern for her safety, had caused their reconciliation. And, with John Watson busy mending his marriage to a very pregnant Mary, Molly found herself more and more in the company of the man who, she had to admit, meant more to her than anything in the world.

So it was not with alarm, but with some vague sense of annoyance that Molly opened her door at just after two o'clock in the morning that cold night in late February. She knew it had to be Sherlock Holmes at her door. No one else of her acquaintance had enough disregard of social boundaries to come calling at that hour of the night. The only surprise was that he had not simply picked her lock, as he had so many times before. When she opened the door she was surprised to find the tall slender man with the dark curls pacing the landing in front of her door, running his long fingers through his hair, and muttering to himself. She was about to say something when he pushed through her door, barely noticing her obstructive presence in the entry.

"Sherlock, what's the problem?"

"What makes you think there is a problem, Dr. Hooper? May I use your loo?"

"Sherlock...", Molly began to speak again, but the detective was already gone. He definitely was not acting like himself tonight, and when he returned to the sitting room moments later, Molly noticed that he seemed to be sweating a bit, despite the chill of the winter night.

"Sherlock, sit down and tell me what's going on!"

The detective took a seat on her couch, but seemed to be fidgeting much more than usual. His breathing was becoming more rapid as he spoke, "I took a couple of paracetamol from your medicine chest, Molly. I have a god awful headache. Do you have any tea?"

"If I make you some, do you promise to tell me what's going on? You seem to be upset."

"Upset, Dr. Hooper? I don't get upset! I need tea because my stomach seems to be slightly upset. Perhaps a bug. And I have a headache, so I took some paracetamol. Although, I seem to be having some symptoms in my chest. Perhaps I'm having a heart attack. Maybe I should see a doctor?"

"I am a doctor, you git, and I doubt that you are having a heart attack, Sherlock…"

"Because I don't have a heart? Old joke, Molly. Heard it before."

"From all the symptoms, it seems far more likely that you are having a panic attack, Sherlock…"

"Panic attack! I don't panic! I have nerves of steel! I am what causes panic attacks! I'll have you know…" The detective was now gasping for breath, as Molly ran to her kitchen and returned with a paper bag.

"Breathe into this, and explain to me what has you in such a dither that you came over here at this hour of the morning dressed in your pajamas!"

Upon hearing these words, Sherlock glanced down at his feet, although his view was somewhat obstructed by the inflating and deflating of the brown paper bag. What he did manage to see was his pajama clad legs and black slippers. "Good lord," he muttered in defeat. He finally settled back onto the couch, breathing in and out in a regular cadence, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest while Molly tended to the tea. When she finally returned with a comforting cuppa, he put down the bag and reached, somewhat gratefully, for the mug.

"Alright Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected, Mr. Nerves-of-Steel, Mr. Bringer-of -Panic-Attacks, Mr…"

"Enough, Molly. I get the point!"

"So tell me about it."

"You know, of course, that Mary is pregnant…"

"No, really? I thought she was just getting fat! And that she was knitting those little bootie thingies for my cat…

"Enough!" Sherlock Holmes, an expert at delivering sarcastic remarks, found it unbearable to be on the receiving end of same. "They have asked me to be godfather, Molly!"

"Congratulations, Sherlock! That's wonderful. You'll be…"

"Please let me finish, Molly. In this case, I have been informed, being godfather will entail some additional duties above and beyond not dropping the infant into the Baptismal font. John's only relative is an alcoholic sister, and Mary has no family whatsoever. So John has asked that, in the event of their early demise, I would act as guardian/parent for the child. Can you imagine me raising a child, Molly? A little girl, yet? Oh, god…" The words died in his throat as he once again raised the paper bag to his mouth.

"Sherlock, relax. The odds are astronomical that you would be called on to provide such a service. Mary and John are both relatively young, and perfectly healthy…"

"Molly, do pay attention. John often helps me with my cases. We have been shot at, and we've both been stabbed. I am sure that I am on a number of hit lists in the criminal world, and John may be considered collateral damage. And Mary! Well, Mary has some people who may not, well, wish her well…"

"Sherlock, how many archenemies can a nurse like Mary have accrued in her lifetime?"

"Not this lifetime, perhaps, but a previous one…"

"Sherlock, I don't know what you're talking about, and I have no desire to know. The less I know about dangerous people, the safer I feel…"

"Quite correct, Dr. Hooper! But you can now see that the odds are not as astronomical as you had once assumed! What can I do? I don't know how to change a nappy! I don't have breasts that pump out life-sustaining nutrition, I can't braid hair…"

"Sherlock, don't you think you're getting a little carried away. The odds are still damned high against anything happening to John and Mary. I would imagine you can give them at least until the kid is out of nappies and off the breast. And keep her hair short, so you won't have to braid it, for god's sake! And, something terrible would have to happen to both of them, for you to have to take on child-rearing duties. A car accident. A plane crash…"

"Have you seen the way Mary drives, Molly. I think she has a death wish! And I shall never let them on a plane again. Or, at least not for the next 18 plus years…"

Molly was giggling slightly, but still trying to comfort the obviously panicked detective, who was now muttering, under his breath, "Maybe they could fly separately, like the royal family. That could work!"

"Sherlock, it will be alright. I promise…"

"Of course it will be alright, Molly. I know I'm overreacting. I just panicked for a bite there." Sherlock was beginning to once again regain his composure. "I'm not the only one, after all. The godmother will have co-parenting responsibilities. It seems that the prospective parents don't entirely trust in my custodial judgement, so they have decided on an additional party to watch over me…"

"You mean to watch over the kid, don't you?"

"I mean exactly what I said, Molly. Do keep up!"

"Who have they chosen?" Molly asked cautiously. Mary had only been living in London a short while before she met, and married, John Watson. Her best friend had been Janine, the maid of honor at John and Mary's wedding, walking down the aisle with Sherlock, John's best man. Janine, who had been Sherlock's erstwhile girlfriend, and phoney fiancee. Janine, who John had described as prancing around Baker Street in nothing but Sherlock's shirt. Molly could never bear to ask if it had been the purple one. Jilted Janine, who had sold scandalous stories to the tabloid press about Sherlock's extraordinary gymnastics in the bedroom. Now Molly reached for the paper bag, and started to breathe into it.

Sherlock was eyeing her with curiosity as he said, "I really shouldn't spoil it for them. They wanted to tell you themselves, after all…"

"WHO? Sherlock," Molly practically shouted between breaths.

"You, of course. Who else could be trusted to rein me in, Molly?"

"Me?" Molly put down the bag and squeaked by way of reply.

"Who else? You and John are good friends, and you and Mary have grown close. Mrs. Hudson could have been a candidate, of course, but she is a bit on the, uh, mature, side, don't you think? Besides, Mary always says that you and I are going to wind up together, anyway, and this just makes it more convenient. Aren't you pleased? I thought the prospect of raising a child would appeal for you. You always expressed an interest in having children, after all."

"Yes, I am pleased, Sherlock. I'm happy that John and Mary think highly enough of me to consider me godmother material. But it's that whole other comment. The one about you and me winding up together, you know. I'd hate to have her make such an important decision under some false assumption. What gives her that impression?" Molly couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye, and she could feel the blush rising up her neck.

"You think it's a false assumption, Molly? It seems rather logical to me. We seem to have compatible personalities in that you are a overly kind and generous individual, and I am neither kind nor generous. Together we average out to normal! We share similar interests. We're relatively young and healthy. I find you attractive, and I assume you feel the same, given your long-standing infatuation…"

"Sherlock…"

"No use denying it, Molly. Even this discussion is causing your pupils to dilate, and your pulse to speed up…"

"Says the man who until a few moments ago was breathing into a paper bag, and talking about having a heart attack!"

"And you still do want children, don't you, Molly? I find that I am becoming more and more amenable to the idea. Somehow, raising our own offspring doesn't seem nearly as daunting as raising someones else's. If John and Mary can manage to reproduce, I imagine we can do so. Our children would be exemplary, don't you agree?"

Molly did, indeed, agree, as she nodded her head while still breathing into the paper bag. "I know you have spoken about having several children in the past, Molly. I suppose we should get started on that relatively soon, given our advancing years." Molly was not amused by the 'advancing years' comment, and gave him a shot to the upper arm.

The petite woman was sitting perfectly upright on the couch next to the man who she never believed, not for one moment, returned her affections in any way. And he was looking at her as if she were the most beautiful thing in the world, even in her ratty robe and de-fluffed slippers. He smiled down at her, his breathing now steady, but his heart still racing. "How many children did you want, really? I'm afraid I shall have to cut you off at three or four, although we could go for more, depending on your, uh, negotiating skills." He moved in a bit closer, before adding, "But we're not going to get anywhere until you remove that bloody paper bag!"

The bag was soon crumpled and dropped to the floor, as the detective moved in to take his pathologist into his arms. After a long, and long overdue, kiss, he glanced down at his feet once again. "I seem to be dressed for bed, Dr. Hooper. What do you say we make our way there?"

"In my view, your're overdressed, Mr. Holmes. But that's easily remedied," the woman said as she took his hand and guided him to a standing position, quickly unbuttoning his Belstaff and shoving it off his shoulders.


End file.
